"Atonement"

I bushwhacked the first turkey I ever killed. I had been “hunting” turkeys (that’s debatable) for five years at the time I did it, and the only thing that outweighed my ignorance was the utter frustration I felt over my seemingly boundless inability to seal the deal. Five years of constant failure had worn me thin.

Not that I deserved to enjoy immediate success. Turkeys are, by design, immensely difficult to hunt; especially if one does it as equitably as is possible considering the fact that the turkeys are not armed with shotguns. To each his own, but from my chair, decoys, chufa patches, ground blinds, electronic callers and the like all tilt the playing field way too much in the hunter’s favor. Early on in my career, I committed to hunting the wild turkey on its terms. The hard way. The old way. And as some posit, the right way.

I don’t know what forces exerted themselves over me such that I made this onerous commitment back before I could even distinguish a cluck from a car horn. Perhaps it was the derisive words of Tom Kelly’s Tenth Legion, which I still set out to read in full every February before turkey season opens. Although I did not know Col. Kelly the first time I read Tenth Legion, I came away from his seminal work with the urgent sense that I would be disappointing him if I hunted turkeys any way other than the “right” way, a sense not unlike the first – and only – time I lost my temper and cussed on the golf course in the presence of my grandfather. I can still see the look of disappointment he had on his face. I have not done it since.

Perhaps it was my cognizance of the greatness of the wild turkey and the reverence it commands the first time I heard one gobble on the roost. Or maybe the explanation is simply my “old school” personality, as friends put it, or my knack for making everything more difficult than it has to be, as my wife does. Either way, I spent five years trying to teach myself and learn from others how to hunt the wild turkey.

So it was, until April 2004 when a friend and I found ourselves occupying the high ground above three loafing toms one hot afternoon beside a lake. I wish I could say we called to them in an attempt to work them honorably, but my mind does not conjure up this exculpatory memory when I think back to the moments leading up to my crime. We reconnoitered the gobblers and the ground, and analyzed the situation in hushed whispers before concurring that we could not get around and in front of them without getting busted. Fervid in my desire to bag a gobbler, I decided to skulk to the crest of the ridge that separated us from them to see what I could do. Ten whirling minutes and two shots later, the deed was done. Finally I walked out of the woods with a gobbler slung over my shoulder. I tried to feel proud as its head bounced off the back of my leg. Shortly after taking dozens of photos showcasing all the traditional poses with the conquered longbeard, however, my reward began to feel somewhat hollow.

I had let myself down. I tried to imagine how Col. Kelly’s words would read on the printed page if he knew what I had done, and chose to write about it. What I imagined was nothing short of an indictment and an excommunication from The League. I promised myself I had bushwhacked my last gobbler, even if I was never to kill another one again.

As the Springs marched on, one after the other like jakes cruising a cutover trying to pick up girls, I slowly began to figure out my proverbial rear from that proverbial hole in the ground. I read about the wild turkey and studied its habits, biology and behavior. When I was around seasoned turkey hunters, I shut my mouth and listened. My calling improved until my repertoire was not only diverse, but actually pretty convincing. My woodsmanship, likewise, improved. I learned from anyone with whom I hunted, and I took something away from every trip to the turkey woods.

A few years ago, the pieces started threatening to fall into place. At first, it was the longbeard that double-gobbled and cut off my calls. Then it was the pack of jakes I called up to within ten steps. Then that damned old Cutover Tom that always got the best of me, but that played the game just enough to convince me I was doing as much right as I was wrong. I was calling them off the roost and getting them to within sight, if not gun range. Still, it seemed like I could always be counted on to commit some bush league error at a critical point in the game to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

A good friend with whom I’ve hunted turkeys for years is fond of saying, “Rog, you’re this close. Once you turn the corner, you’re going to start killing birds consistently.” Maybe. But I had not yet atoned for my sins.

For years I silently suspected that I had jinxed myself by bushwhacking that turkey. Last season I reached points when I wondered how long I’d be cursed with having to wear that old bird around my neck, the way the Ancient Mariner reaped so much misery from killing his albatross. Turkeys, turkeys everywhere . . .

Somewhere along the line, however, I must have paid my penance. If this season is any indication, my albatross has fallen from my neck, and I have turned that corner. I am calling up turkeys and killing them, just as I’d always imagined a turkey hunter should. While I still make as many mistakes as good decisions (also as it should be), I am blessed this season with exciting hunts. Absolved of the burden of my trespasses, I relish the passion and brilliance and rush and sheer maddening frustration inherent in hunting turkeys, confident I am doing it the right way, and fervent in the knowledge that it’s supposed to be hard.

(c) Roger Guilian 2009